“Yes, I reckon ’tis,” said the farmer, caressing what might have been nap had not his old hat been of felt. “ ‘Tain’t safe for an old farmer to be givin’ his time an’ thought to pomps an’ vanities,—like the minister’s broadcloth coat.”
“Get out!” exclaimed Mrs. Hayn, with a threatening gesture. The old man kissed her, laughed, and began to obey her command; but as, like countrymen in general, he made his exit by the longest possible route, wandering through the sitting-room, the hall, the dining-room, and the kitchen, his wife had time to waylay him at the door-step and remark,—
“I was only goin’ to say that if Phil does make that trip to York I don’t see that he’ll need to buy new clothes. He’s never wore that Sunday coat on other days, except to two or three funerals an’ parties. I was goin’ it over this very mornin’, an’ it’s about as good as new.”
“I wonder how this family would ever have got along if I hadn’t got such a caretakin’ wife?” said the old man. “It’s the best coat in the United States, if you’ve been goin’ it over.”
Phil was already in the corn,—he had left the table some minutes before his father,—and as the old man approached, Phil said,—
“Father, don’t you think that wind-break for the sheep needs patching this fall?”
“It generally does, my son, before cold weather sets in.”
“I guess I’ll get at it, then, as soon as we get the corn stacked.”
“What’s the hurry? The middle of November is early enough for that.”
“Oh, when it’s done it’ll be off our minds.”